


No Time For Sleep

by riddlcr



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A LOT of Angst, M/M, Wing Grooming, but fluff, ineffable husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 23:45:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19734079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riddlcr/pseuds/riddlcr
Summary: In which Crowley hates himself and his wings after he falls, but then an angel comes into his life.





	No Time For Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this and posted it on the good omens amino as well so if you see the same post on there-- it's just me!

"This body is not my body."

Crowley's exhausted eyes trailed up to the sky, the dark clouds lit from the moonlight were blurred from his own haziness. 

He never liked himself when he first fell. 

He didn't like his eyes, and he especially didn't like the black wings he was now forced to be accustomed to. Being so used to the brightness of his being back then, it was easy to love his wings because they were white and soft and beautiful. 

Now they felt like weights hanging from his back. It forced him to enjoy being alone, to morph into somebody who enjoyed isolation since he had become so insecure. They were a permanent reminder of his ugliness, even when they weren't in full form, his eyes still remained. 

Every time he would see a reason to become full form, he would have to deal with the black tips at the corners of his eyes. But he had learned how to release his wings at any time, and he had figured out something else too. 

The feathers were easy to pull out. 

It was extremely painful, physically and mentally, but they would just slip out from where they held. There was nothing more to it. He wouldn't bleed, he wouldn't break his bones. 

He sat with the wing underneath his arm, forcing himself to bend it a wrong way, and spent hours upon countless hours tugging those terrible coal pins desperately thinking it was possible to get rid of them forever. 

Sometimes he would pass out doing it, so exhausted by the repetitive motion of his hands, tired of looking at the pile of black beside him, tired of seeming like the feathers never actually ended.

At first, he would spend the following days with his shoulders sore even to move. Then he got used to it. He got numb to the pain, even of the pain he felt when he pulled carelessly. There was nothing to it, only the hope that sooner than later he would reach an end to the feathers, only existing of nothing coming from his back. No more weight, no more suffering, absolutely nothing.

When Aziraphale came into Crowley's life, it wasn't something known. 

The angel didn't need to know about his insecurities, they were irrelevant, he had told himself. It wouldn't benefit anything in their friendship if Aziraphale heard what constantly went on in Crowley's head - especially when he looked at himself. 

Though, one night, it had just happened. 

"I can see your wings all the time, you know." Aziraphale never lifted his eyes from the book he was reading. Meanwhile, Crowley had froze in place, hands to his sides, eyes wide. He searched for something to say but the angel spoke again.

"You thought that only you could see mine, didn't you? Or did you just never think to acknowledge it?" He closed his book slowly and removed his reading glasses, tilting his head up at the demon. Silence fell quickly and ticking of the clock across the room taunted Crowley to stress. 

"I guess I got so used to it, they became invisible." Crowley managed to speak, trying to move, but his limbs felt heavy. 

Aziraphale gave a smile that was all too familiar to Crowley. A smile of caring, of worry. Of sadness. He has seen it, but not in his direction. That smile was for him. The angel invited him to sit beside him, and he did reluctantly. 

"Let them out." 

Crowley didn't want to hear those words. He didn't want his wings to be physically there. He sat, hands rested in his lap, and he let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes. In about ten seconds his wings materialized and held out behind him. He couldn't see the angel since he had moved to sit behind him, but he heard moving. 

"What are you doing?" Crowley had asked, an uncomfortable feeling creeping down his arms and resting in his palms. He felt so exposed. 

Without an answer, he felt Aziraphale rest his hand on one of his wings. The sensation was warm and welcoming, and instantly relaxed the demon. Then, gentle fingers softly ran through the bunches of feathers. If he understood what was happening, Crowley would have understood Aziraphale was healing him. Both physically.. and mentally. 

"I think your wings are wonderful. You've done this to yourself, haven't you?" 

Crowley didn't respond. Aziraphale already knew the answer anyway. 

"You shouldn't be wasting your reading time tending to my own problems." The demon replied, trying to keep his breathing steady. 

"My dear you are much more important than words on paper." 

Crowley smiled. 

For hours, instead of Crowley tugging out his own feathers, Aziraphale felt around them and caressed them and massaged the muscles in his wings. It was better than anything he had experienced. It took time, and there was a lot of chatting, but Crowley would have been lying if he said he didn't enjoy it. 

They made this a routined thing. 

Sometimes, Crowley didn't want to, and Aziraphale respected that. But if it got too long, like three days, then the angel would insist on the task. 

Eventually, it got to the point where Crowley could begin to love himself again. He didn't mind looking at his wings when he was alone because now, he thought of Aziraphale. 

"You are unique. Just because your wings aren't what they once were doesn't mean it changes who you are as a being. You are still incredibly lovely."

Words like that the angel would repeat, and Crowley would've let them go right over his head. When he started listening, that is, was when he felt okay. 

He didn't enjoy being a demon, it was never his intention, but he understood he couldn't change. If it weren't for the angel that had tended to his self inflicted wounds on his wings and in his soul, he would have deteriorated until there was nothing left of him. Now, there was more to him than there ever was. And a piece of Aziraphale rested within his heart.


End file.
